Dancing
by Jehilew
Summary: "He'll forget about that other girl again, and he'll seek her out again. And it won't matter one bit that he'll do it all again maybe tomorrow night, or the next, because it's her he always comes home to (in a way, if she stretches a little. A lot.)." Angst, my dudes, pure, unadulterated angst.


**Hope y'all like pathetic angst, cuz that's all this is, baby! This is set sometime in the _early_ Romy days. This is sometime between the first date and Remy's first solo.**

* * *

She watches him go out for the night.

_Again_.

Watches him rip out of the mansion's driveway on his motorcycle.

_Again_.

He'd done the same last night, too, and the night before that.

It isn't any comfort at all knowing _why_ he's going out more frequently, that it's because of her. It's because he wants her, and she's too scared to let his impulsive ass catch her, yet even more selfish for not cutting her losses and shoving him off for real.

She's stringing him along, frustrating the hell out of him both physically and emotionally over shit she _can't _give him, and she knows it, hates it. But she can't quit him.

And it _hurts_. It stabs a vicious wound somewhere in her she can't really identify (not her heart, _no_, definitely not _that_). It claws cruelly at her self esteem, too, knowing that he's interested in her, knowing he wants her, knowing he damn near ties himself in knots to seek her out, and also knowing she can't give him anything, can't _keep_ him. It digs painfully at her insecurities, bows her head, makes her wish so very hard that she isn't…

Isn't _her_.

_Is_ someone else.

_Is_ a woman who can touch.

Is one of them.

_Them_. That's what she calls his women. And she knows there have been many. People like him have all the beautiful lovers they can possibly want, and New York City has millions to choose from.

She's aware that _they_ can't keep him, either. He likes challenges, he likes to chase, and he likes to steal. _They_ are no prize, nothing he has to do anything for, just one-nighters, or even just one-timers in a bathroom stall of the place they met him at.

She doesn't have to absorb him to know any of this, and god help her, she hopes she never does. The very last thing she wants is to _feel_ any of that shit (because unfortunately, he _does _matter, a whole hell of a lot, damn her anyway). _See_ his night out, _hear_ what he thinks or says, _feel_ what he feels when—

She shakes her head and moves from the window. No, it's absolutely no comfort that she's a prize. Who cares that she keeps him coming back, when it's only because she can't do anything about it?

She isn't stupid; if she could touch, she'd have already let him have her, let him gobble her up. She'd have been no different from the others. Just another notch on his belt.

She'd be one of _them_.

Maybe that wouldn't have been a bad thing? She supposes not. She's self-aware enough to realize that had her power not been an issue, sex wouldn't have been one, either. She would have laid eyes on him, recognized him for the one night stand he is, and that would have been that.

He wouldn't have bothered trying to get to know her, she wouldn't have gotten attached to him (frightening, how quickly _that'd _happened!). Their friendship wouldn't have blossomed, and their spark never would've caught fire.

She flops back on her bed, blinks up at the ceiling, and contemplates that one for a moment. Could she have been like that? Would she prefer it to how she actually is instead?

She wonders. She lets the wondering slide into a fantasy, a sexier twist on their meet-cute. Well, the _second _one. The one sans Shadow King mind control. Because if she could touch, she certainly would have touched him again. After that kiss the day before?

_Pfft_. Under Shadow King's control, she might've been, but that kiss had been all _her_, and she'd remembered it all.

Maybe _he_ would have kissed _her_ that time, and she would have let him, kissed him back. He'd certainly seemed bent on working that angle when he'd given her his coat. Had she not been _her_, maybe…

But that stings, too, the _could-have-beens_, and she shies away. It's one thing to imagine something entirely made up with no basis in real-life situations that'd happened; she indulges in those kinds of fantasies frequently. It's the ones that probably would've happened if she could've let them that she can't do.

Not to mention, her entire dynamic with him is… Well, it's exciting, _giddy_! But it's also solid. It's not superficial. Despite secrets and dancing around insecurities, they're real.

She doesn't particularly like fantasies that feature him not giving a real shit about her.

"Nah," she sighs up at the ceiling, feeling tired all of a sudden, "Guess I'll just stick with being _me_." She closes her eyes miserably, trying not to think about him wrapped up in some pretty girl tonight. At least _she_ gets him for...however long, til she doesn't. That other woman only gets him for a few minutes forever.

Because whoever she is, s_he_ isn't friends with him, _she_ isn't who he draws out, makes an effort for.

He'll come back late again. (Or early, depending on which way one looks at it.)

He'll forget about that other girl again, and he'll seek _her _out. And it won't matter one bit that he'll do it all again maybe tomorrow night, or the next, because it's _her _he always comes home to (in a way, if she stretches a little. A _lot_.).

_Again, again, again, and again_. Over and over, their weird, exciting dance around each other.

And who the hell was she kidding earlier, it absolutely _is _a comfort that she's the prize. It's all she has of him, and in a brutally honest (terrifying?) moment, that's plenty.

"Goddammit, I _do_ love him," she hisses irritably, flinging an arm over her eyes.

Then she snorts, bites her lip, and tries out that brand new admission again. "I love him."

She drags her arm off her face, lets it flop to the mattress, sighing loudly. She's been suspicious of her heart for a little while, but hadn't acknowledged it. Definitely hadn't said it out loud.

Surprisingly, it doesn't hurt to say it. Hear it.

Surprisingly, it feels, sounds…_good._

_Giddy. _

_Exciting._

_Fun._

She won't admit that shit to another soul, _ever_, because it's silly and pathetic and impractical for _so_ many reasons, but it felt like something inside easing, unclenching _just a tad_ to say it.

"Yeah, I'm stupid as hell for it, but," she shrugs helplessly at the ceiling fan, her heart fluttering to match the girlish smile pulling at her mouth, "I love him."

And so, she'll wait for him to come home.

_Again._

She'll wait for him to roll into the mansion's driveway on his motorcycle.

_Again._

Just as she'd done last night, and the night before that.

Because it's _all_ the comfort in the world right now (and all the other times, to be honest), knowing he hasn't quit her yet.


End file.
